It's always been you - Collection of High-Quality Johnlock One Shots
by thinole
Summary: One Shots of about 1700 words each about John and Sherlock. There is hurt and comfort, fluff, romance, drama and occasional angst involved. Ships: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, the characters obviously belong to the BBC (Note: One of the stories is ranted M, it is marked specifically) [Credits of the cover image are to catkinns on ]
1. High but not alone

It was a rather ordinary day in 221B Baker Street. Or so John thought when he left in the early hours to get to the hospital – _one_ of them actually had to work to pay the rent. Sherlock on the other hand didn't feel particularly good, he had not had a case in a total of 149 hours and with John gone, he felt the need to distract himself from the overwhelming boredom some other way. After he had broken into John's laptop, re-read every single one of his friend's blog entries, composed half a song on his violin, finished up a chemical experiment he had started a week ago and never gotten to bring to an end and drank no less than five cups of tea, Sherlock's mind finally outraced him and he couldn't pretend to be occupied any longer. Fooling himself never quite worked out the way he would like it to. Wasn't it ironical that he, who could at times sit entirely still for hours while visiting his mind palace, was cursed with immense ADHD? Of course, that was one thing he would never admit to John or anyone other than Mycroft who knew about it anyway, as well as his Asperger's syndrome, but Sherlock nevertheless was very aware of it, especially at times like this, when he got so bored that he might actually do something stupid…

Only a few months had passed since John and Sherlock had moved into the flat, but they had experienced quite a lot together already – well, given that John did kill a man for his new flatmate the second day he knew him, where would one expect their relationship to go? When they weren't out solving cases and chasing murderers, John and Sherlock liked to just hang around 221B, reading, playing board games, discussing the latest cases and laughing with each other… none of them was ever bored as long as they were together. John never knew how much of a change he meant for Sherlock's life, on the contrary, he rather often just assumed that his friend had not adjusted his lifestyle to the flatsharing at all, for example when Sherlock continually refused to do his share of the shopping, cleaning up and other such little annoyances.

What John was completely oblivious to was that the issue of depression had not been a problem only to him before they met, but that Sherlock, too, had had to deal with it and of course it was never mentioned how close exactly Sherlock had been to intentionally overdosing in an attempt of suicide a month before Stanford had introduced him to John. Getting a flatmate for Sherlock had been Mrs. Hudson's idea, as she always knew exactly how Sherlock was doing and what he needed. He in fact had always been able to pay the rent on his own, but his landlady's "special deal" had been that he could move into 221B if he got himself a friend to share it with.

Upon leaving the hospital that afternoon, John's phone started to ring. He mumbled an excuse to his colleagues and quickly answered it, surprised who might call him, as he didn't usually receive calls.

"John Watson here"

"John."

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"John, you should return home to my little brother as soon as possible, if you cared to walk around the corner to your right you might find a car suitable for this purpose."

While externally sighting, John found himself starting to jog towards the black car that indeed was parked just around the hospital's corner.

"Mycroft, you know you don't have to be this mysterious all the time. So, if you could please – just for once – tell me clearly what happened and what you are talking about. Is there something wrong in Baker Street?"

"Get into the car, John. It's danger night."

Danger night. John had heard the term before, on his second or third meeting with Mycroft where the latter had abducted him to explain that Sherlock was not an easy person to live with (because John definitely couldn't have figured that out on his own) and that Mycroft was anxious for John to know that Sherlock would eventually need his help desperately, but would never openly ask John for it.

Consequently, John had been warned this could happen, but he never quite understood what "this" was and what Mycroft expected of him, should the case occur.

"Care to elaborate?" he therefore asked while getting seated in Mycroft's car.

"Mycroft? Are you still there?" John added a few seconds later as now reply came, but the line was dead.

"Wonderful. Always so informative" he muttered under his breath and then bade the driver to go as fast as possible.

As John unlocked the door to the flat, he heard and saw nothing suspicious at first glance, which naturally made him even more so, given Mycroft's enigmatic warnings.

Then, upon entering the living room, John found Sherlock sprawled out over his armchair, apparently sound asleep. John smiled to himself, knowing that Mycroft was just being paranoid, as Sherlock was a grown man who could very well take care of himself. Reassured and calm once more, John got into the kitchen and prepared himself a cup of tea.

His thoughts had already passed on to a different matter, when he suddenly heard Sherlock calling his name from the living room.

"Jawn?"

John couldn't quite identify what startled him about this, as it was not an unusual thing for Sherlock to do, but he did feel like something was off about his friend's voice. Stepping back into the other room, John found Sherlock still sitting in his chair, not looking at his entering friend but seeming to guiltily avoid eye contact.

"What is it?" John asked as his earlier alarm returned continually.

When he didn't get a reply straight away, he got closer to his friend, kneeling before his armchair to look Sherlock in the eyes. At the first glance, he knew that there was a shimmer to the consulting detective's eyes that he didn't like. It was only a moment later that the suspicion was confirmed by Sherlock:

"John, I am so sorry… You weren't here so I felt the need again, I know I shouldn't have… I just couldn't help it, I needed it, oh please, John, I can't stop it!"

John took hold of Sherlock's hand and carefully slid his sleeve back to expose his friend's wrist and forearm. The two punctures were clearly visible and now John also noticed the emptied needles lying between Sherlock's feet.

"John, I'm sorry, I know I said that I was clean- and I was… until now"

John felt anger welling up in him, but the worry about his friend was by far more dominant. He let go of his arm and burst out:

"For god's sake! This could kill you! Do you even realise that? It could kill you, Sherlock, You Could Die!"

The words came out a lot softer and gentler than John had originally intended because with shock, he realised that tears were forming in his friend's unfocused eyes. Sherlock Holmes was crying.

"Sherlock, what was in those needles and how much of it?" he demanded strictly, grabbing Sherlock's chin to hold his eyes into the light and examine his pupils. They were clearly widened, that man was high as a kite, and when Sherlock handed John the list of the ingredients he had experimentally put into the drugs, John didn't dare to look at it but instead simply pocketed it. He would read through it later. Right now, Sherlock was his priority.

"Alright then, come!" John got up from his knees and waited for Sherlock to rise as well, but no reaction came from the consulting detective.

"Sherlock!" the exclamation was significantly louder this time as it was already repeated for the third time now, but John's friend did not seem to be in the mood to follow his doctor's orders.

Seeing no alternative, John grabbed Sherlock by one arm, and, placing his own arm around his friend's waist, he pulled him to his feet and steered him towards the bedroom.

The two must have looked very weird, stumbling through the flat like drunks because of Sherlock's clumsy and uncoordinated movements and John's struggle to support him, but eventually they made it to Sherlock's bedroom, where John made sure his friend carefully lay down before covering him with his blanket.

As John turned to leave, exhausted and also a bit angry with his irresponsible friend, all of a sudden, a hand reached out from beneath the bedsheets to take hold of his own. The doctor looked back and saw right into Sherlock's pleading eyes.

"Please don't go, John" he whispered.

And for the first time since they met, John saw real fear in his friend's eyes.

Sighing, he sat down at the edge of Sherlock's bed, pulled his legs up and leaned against the head of the bed so he now sat next to his friend's figure.

It was only a few minutes of silence later that he realised that Sherlock's hand was still embedded in his own, but as the delirious detective did not seem to mind, John didn't pull back now, either.

John had thought that the worst part was done now that he had gotten Sherlock into his bed and his friend was apparently calming down, but only a short while after sitting down in Sherlock's bed he realised that quite the opposite was true, as his friend started to tremble and writhe, doubling over in physical and internal pain. Sherlock was clinging to John's hand as if it were the only thing keeping him from drowning and John let it happen because in this moment, he would have done anything to lessen his friend's pain, he simply couldn't stand seeing him hurting like that.

"I need some more, John, I need it! Now! Please, give it to me, please!"

Sherlock begged, but it was of no use as John knew that this was the one thing, he could not allow his friend to do now.

"It's alright, Sherlock. You can do this, just stay strong! You're not alone in this, not this time. I am here!"

John soothed him while holding his friend's quivering body in his arms and gently stroking his back. He was about to say some more meaningless reassurances, but before he could think of any, his phone started to ring.

"Damn it, I can't right now"

He mumbled to himself, not even thinking of leaving Sherlock alone in this state, not even for a moment. The caller's patience got to an end quickly and immediately after the ringing stopped, a text alert came from the phone.

Sighing, John used his free hand to fish it out of his pocket while he was still holding Sherlock close to himself with his other arm.

"Please take the precaution of removing all sharp objects from sight. Don't worry, he wouldn't harm you, it is merely for his own protection. -MH"

Cursing under his breath, John looked around, taking Mycroft's warnings entirely seriously this time. At first glance, he could not spot anything, but he knew that Sherlock kept his scissors in a drawer at his desk, as well as the dagger he had once brought as a trophy from a case and he also supposed Sherlock had some razor blades somewhere in his room. Deciding to remove them from the detective's reach, John tried to get out of his friend's bed, but when he started to move even just slightly, Sherlock's arms went around his waist, clinging to him and definitely not willing to give up the protection of a comforting friend, who, for the first time, was there to hold Sherlock during all his pain and temptations.

'Well, if I can't keep anything that could do harm away from Sherlock, I can still keep Sherlock away from harm' John thought to himself, and, settling down for a long night, allowed his friend to cry into his jumper as the pain got worse.

When Sherlock finally – finally – calmed down after putting both himself and his friend through quite enough pain and when he at last drifted off to sleep, silent tears fell from John's eyes and soaked his friend's collar as Sherlock was still in his arms. He hated this. He hated seeing Sherlock like this. But at the same time, he made himself no illusions as to how many times that had probably happened without his knowledge and passed while he was completely oblivious to it and he was so relieved that this time, Sherlock had come to him, trusted him. Even with that bloody list that lay heavily in his pocket.

But John didn't take it out, he stayed close to Sherlock.

Not alone. Not this time.

"This time, Sherlock, I'll stay."

5


	2. Christmas Market

The explosion boomed only a few streets away from where Sherlock was strolling down the Christmas fair in Regent Street.

He was walking alone, not paying any particular attention to the families doing Christmas shopping or the couples enjoying mulled wine and other hot drinks at the market stalls and tents, he in fact was a bit moody because earlier that day, John had left the flat in anger over a little argument the two had had. It was a trifle, really, merely an unimportant disagreement and Sherlock was determined to let his friend know that he was sorry he had insisted upon his own opinion so much and not even listened to John's point of view. Now, he was looking for a little Christmas present he could get John, as the holiday was approaching quickly, and Christmas Eve was set to be celebrated in Baker Street with all their friends.

Upon hearing the deafening sound, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and immediately started running through a driveway eastward, where smoke could be seen rising above the rooftops. What had caused this explosion? Was it another gas leak? There had been several these last weeks. But then again, gas explosions didn't usually cast such huge clouds of dark smoke. As Sherlock arrived at the scene, he heard an ambulance in the distance that, judging by the sound, was approaching, and he quickly saw why: The entire side of a house was blown open, there were fragments of stone and wooden splinters all around and the Christmas fair tent that had apparently been standing in front of the house had flown down the street a good thirty feet, spilling roasted chestnuts all over the street. Sherlock followed that trail to the other side of the street where a crowd of people had gathered around something.

"Anybody injured? Any fatalities?"

He shouted while searching his way through the Christmas shoppers, and, upon arriving in the middle of the little circle, froze on the spot. The crowd was gathered around a man lying on the ground, the blood from his forearms staining the clear snow. There were splinters stuck in his clothing and possibly even in his skin at his lower arms and chest, clearly he had tried to shield himself from the explosion by raising his arms up to his head, but it obviously hadn't done any good, as he was not breathing and a quick touch to his wrist told Sherlock that his heart was not beating, either. Sherlock fell to his knees in the snow next to the man, his hands automatically doing the familiar heart massage while tears of panic started forming in his eyes and his own heart was racing wildly.

The man on the ground was John.

Sherlock was still pumping his friend's heart and blowing air into his lungs, desperate to get his pulse back to life, when the ambulance arrived.

"Sir, please step back and let us do our work! Quit the first aid, you have done quite enough, but that's not what he needs right now. Step aside, please."

The doctors calmly tried to convince Sherlock to give them some room, but he refused to even take his eyes off John to answer, and he fought like a wild animal when a few doctors tried to pull him from his friend's side by force. He was not going to leave his friend now, and he was not going to allow that the last words he had ever said to John were those of a dispute, he simply wouldn't!

All of a sudden, Sherlock felt a sharp pain in his arm and the world slipped from his view.

"Quickly, get that splinter out of his chest!"

A doctor said while opening John Watson's jacket and discovering that the only thing keeping that man's heart from working and his lungs from breathing was a particularly long and sharp piece of fragmented stone that was blocking his airways and possibly his bloodstream as well. It was not a difficult cut, but they had to perform it right on the spot in the middle of a busy Christmas fair, as they could not risk the man being unconscious for much longer, so they quickly cleared the place of the crowd and built a barrier that would keep nosy spectators out.

No twenty minutes later, the wound in the chest and the smaller ones in the arms were stitched and a nurse injected a medication with a tincture of adrenaline in John's arm that would wake him up immediately.

"Sir, are you alright? You are probably feeling a bit weary right now, due to the blood loss, but you should better get off the ground now or you will most certainly catch a bad cold"

A doctor explained while helping him up.

"Yes, thank you, doctor- "

John answered and then, looking around, he asked:

"- Where's Sherlock? Isn't he here? I- I could've sworn I heard his voice!"

"Sher- who?"

"Doctor O'Bryan, I believe he means the madman in the coat!"

A nurse intervened. John turned into her direction, almost stumbling over his own feet due to his poor circulation.

"Yes! Yes, I think that would be him! Is he still here?"

"Well he certainly was, he quite possibly saved your life by doing first aid until we arrived. But we had to put him down for a bit, good lord, the man was hyperventilating!"

John grabbed the doctor's arm,

"Where is he now?"

"We had him carried him over there, to that market stall, as I said, we had to give him quite a strong sedative, but he should be alright, now."

"Thank you very much, allow me to thank all of you properly, later, but if you'll excuse me, I'll be looking for my friend, now."

Sherlock was sitting behind the stall, his legs curled up and his arms tightly wrapped around them. That's how John found him, sitting there, face buried in his knees and rocking back and forth.

"Sherl- Sherlock!"

Sherlock gave up the bundle position as John sank down in front of him, kneeling between his still crooked legs.

"John."

A feeling beyond relief or any word known came over Sherlock as he wrapped his shaky arms around his friend and laid his face on his shoulder. Slowly, John returned the embrace and buried one of his hands in Sherlock's soft curls. He pressed his friend's face into his jacket and felt his breathing becoming continually steadier and calmer and sensed Sherlock's heartbeat soothingly against his own.

"John- … John"

"Shh, it's alright now, Sherlock!"

John tried to comfort his friend.

"You were- "

"I'm okay, you're okay, we're okay… Calm down!"

After a few seconds, Sherlock slowly pulled back, eyes fixed on the small space of pavement left between them. He had never before known such fear, never. The immense and overwhelming dread of losing John, losing his only friend, his life, had caught him completely off guard and Sherlock wasn't usually thrown into anxiety easily.

All of a sudden, he felt John's fingers under his chin, gently raising his head to meet his friend's gaze. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Is that what it felt like when I- "

He could see John's eyes widening almost unnoticeably, but there was no imminent reply. His friend's facial expression nonetheless wasn't hard to read and at the realisation, Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder once more and, feeling soft fingers running through his hair soothingly and hearing John's reassuring voice, he let quiet tears soak the army jacket.

Sherlock could have stayed that way for an eternity, but after a few minutes he placed his hands in John's neck and looked him straight in the eyes.

"I'm so sorry, John. At that time, I didn't know what I was doing to you, I had no idea… what it felt like for you! I am so terribly sorry, and I hope you can forgive me…"

"Sherlock- "

John interrupted,

"It's ok now, really. All this was years ago, I didn't know you were still uncomfortable with it, and of course I forgive you! You did what had to be done and yes, sure you could have let me know you were still alive, but let's not discuss that any further, you know where that leads. All that matters is that right now you are here with me, we're both safe and nothing is going to tear us apart. I promise."

Sherlock cracked a little smile and, leaning closer to John, whispered:

"I love you, John Watson"

With that, their lips met and the two lost themselves in a sweet and soft kiss. John carefully played with Sherlock's curls whilst his friend gently traced John's jawline with his fingertips. The slow and shy kiss lasted only for a few moments before John broke it by pulling back slightly and disentangling his fingers from Sherlock's soft hair.

"I love you too, Sherlock, and I never thought that I would say that, but it's true, I love you and I couldn't be happier that you are with me always!"

Without giving his friend – or, shall we say, boyfriend – an opportunity to think of an answer, John pressed his lips to Sherlock's once more, and this time their kiss was deeper, more passionate, and giving off a feeling of pure and unblemished love.

Minutes later, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson directed themselves home to Baker Street merrily, their arms around each other's waist.

4


	3. Nightmare

Sherlock had always been a light sleeper.

In his childhood, he had considered it a wonderful gift to always wake up at the tiniest sound and thus know what was going on in the house at all times. Sherlock knew when Mycroft came home late, when his brother read past his bed time and he also was the first to wake when the morning came and the traffic outside got louder.

Now it was different. Since Sherlock moved back into 221B with John three weeks ago, almost 21 months after the fall, he knew that his light sleep was a curse.

Not a night passed where he wasn't woken in an early hour by shuffling and crying from the upstairs bedroom. John had occasionally had nightmares before, but never as frequently as these last few weeks.

They also seemed to be getting worse every night, as at first, Sherlock had been able to set the thoughts about his friend not sleeping well aside, expecting it to be only temporarily, but when he was awoken by heavy breathing and crying again the next, the next and the next night, he began to seriously worry about John. Was this his fault? Was he the cause of these horrible nightmares? Whatever Sherlock did to distract himself, he couldn't seem to get rid of these doubts. What if he wasn't really welcome here and something significant had changed? What if it wasn't that easy to return to his earlier life because John didn't want him in his anymore?

The hours passed. The clock struck 2am and John was still sitting in his bed, trying desperately not to let the sleep overcome him. He was weary as he hadn't been sleeping well for weeks now, but he didn't want to drift off now, either, for he knew that the nightmares were inevitable once he gave in, and John couldn't live through them anymore.

He simply couldn't watch Sherlock step off that roof again, not again see his friend's broken body before St. Bart's and he could most certainly not stand to have to check the detective's pulse one more time only to find it cold and dead.

And John knew that the nightmares would return night after night and that he wouldn't wake and not find himself completely soaked in sweat and tears any time soon. He was tired and exhausted and all he wished for was some peaceful rest… he just wanted to sleep, and sleep was so near, a soft and alluring temptation…

Before he knew it, John had dozed off and sunken down into the sheets.

A sudden heart-wrenching cry woke Sherlock about an hour later. While he shuffled around in his bed, fiercely arguing with himself whether he should go upstairs to check on his friend – merely to make sure he was alright and to maybe wake him up from his nightmare and let him find some rest – while Sherlock was restlessly turning over and over in his bed, John woke up with Sherlock's name on his lips.

He must have fallen asleep eventually, but as a glance at the watch on his bedside table told him that only an hour had passed, John knew that the nightmares must have taken over almost as soon as he had lost consciousness. He shuddered at the clear picture his memory had shown him in his sleep: Sherlock, lying on the pavement, a cloud of dark blood around his head and a crowd of nosy spectators that kept John from kneeling down next to his friend's body to be with him in the last seconds- no! John couldn't think of that now, he would have nightmares again! Desperate, he buried his face in his hands. The situation was hopeless, there was no way of getting rid of the images his mind produced. Or wasn't there?

The moment Sherlock decided to get up and go upstairs to calm his friend down, the door to his bedroom opened ever so slowly. The consulting detective lay still, pretending to sleep, and awaited what would come next, so the door was carefully closed and a moment later Sherlock felt a figure as quietly as possible climbing into his bed.

When John carefully pulled Sherlock's bedsheets over himself as well, his friend turned over and gently pulled him into his arms wordlessly. Stiffening at first due to the unexpected movement of his friend, John realised that Sherlock must have been awake before and thus possibly heard him screaming his name, but as the consulting detective's embrace was so comforting and John for the first time in what seemed like forever felt truly at peace here in his arms, he gave in and snuggled closer to Sherlock's chest, pressing his face into his friend's collar.

Then, John's hand searched for Sherlock's and the doctor placed his fingers on his friend's wrist. The steady and reassuring beating of Sherlock's very much alive heart guided John Watson into the first truly peaceful and relaxing sleep since Sherlock's staged suicide.

Sherlock awoke the next morning with a warm feeling in his chest, and slowly became aware of his position. One of his arms was still draped around John's shoulders and the other apparently had, in the course of the night, found its way into his friend's, as their two hands were closely entangled.

Sherlock usually was someone who liked to get out of bed as soon as he woke up, but this morning he felt no desire to get up just now. In fact, he had scarcely felt more comfortable than he felt right in this moment, lying close to John, holding his hand.

Drifting in and out of sleep for about half an hour longer, the two flatmates slowly became more and more awake, but none of them seemed to be willing to end their rather intimate cuddling.

It was John who finally decided that he was irretrievably awake and that they would eventually have to get out of bed and start into the day. Carefully disentangling his left hand from Sherlock's locks where it had been buried for most of the night, he mumbled:

"Good morning, Sherlock"

A little, happy smirk appeared in his friend's face, as he answered:

"Good morning, John" and then, chuckling, "Your hair is a mess!"

Grunting, John moved a bit out of Sherlock's personal space to lean up onto his elbows and retorted:

"Yours always is"

Both feeling a simple and innocent happiness, the two got up, John disappeared upstairs for a few minutes to get ready and they reunited in the kitchen to have their usual breakfast. Like an unspoken agreement, none of them mentioned the last night and Sherlock respected John's apparent desire to keep the reasons for it to himself.

A truly ordinary and eventless day had passed and even though Sherlock had not had a single case to investigate and not a single visitor other than Mrs. Hudson, he didn't even for a second feel his usual boredom, but instead was content and full of happy memories the entire day.

As the evening drew nearer, both flatmates felt a certain unease and uncertainty because none of them knew how to address the inevitable matter of whether the last night had been a unique occurrence or… not, and they still hadn't spoken a word about it.

The evening got later, and John and Sherlock had not yet eaten anything as they knew they would have to talk if they did.

Finally, Sherlock decided that this could not be continued, so he put down his book and met John's eyes that had apparently been fixed on him while he was reading, judging by the red flush that immediately came to his friend's cheeks.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked, deliberately ignoring John's awkward behaviour.

"Starving." Came the imminent reply.

But Sherlock didn't go and get his coat right away, as he usually would have, but instead deduced his friend for a second longer.

"John, you're hovering. I despise hovering. You want to talk to me about something, please just do it. I won't judge, I promise."

The addressed doctor glanced to the side and bit his lower lip and then shyly mumbled:

"Would it be possible… I mean, could I, you know… Could I stay with you tonight, again?"

Sherlock smiled, funny that John could even imagine him saying 'no' to a request like that. He leaned forward, taking his still seemingly feeling awkward friend's hand and replied:

"Of course you can! Why shouldn't you? John, you never need to fear being rejected by me."

*****  
**Happily, John crawled into Sherlock's arms again later that night, not fearing the possibility of nightmares for even a second. He knew that here, secured by the comfort of the world's only consulting detective, he was safe from everything. Even from his own memory. With that thought, John lay his fingers around Sherlock's wrist once more, felt the steadily beating reassurance and drifted off to a peaceful sleep.

4


	4. Sherlock's Return

Finally, John looked up.

It seemed like his entire world stopped for a moment while he stared into these eyes he knew all too well and had been certain of never seeing again. The universe held its breath while John's brain tried to comprehend what was right before his eyes.

This was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And he was alive.

After the first shock, John's legs threatened to give away beneath him, so he stumbled a small step backwards, but was suddenly stopped by a hand catching his own. It was only after it let go again, now certain that John would remain conscious, that John realised how _real _it had felt, not at all like an illusion of his best friend, but actually… quite like he was really here with him.

John tried to find words, to say anything at all, but the only thing that came to the surface of his mind was:

"Sherlock."

How had the evening taken such a turn? When had this happened? Why had John been this indescribably unprepared? The last thing he remembered was him walking home alone after going to get the groceries alone and spending a dull day at work alone. Alone was what he had had these last two years. Alone protected him from ever feeling again, from ever letting someone get so close to him again, only to lose them when he cared the most.

And suddenly, this tall man in a somewhat familiar coat had bumped into him. The only thing that had struck the former soldier as odd about this had been that the man had not apologised, in fact, he had not said anything at all and not continued walking, either. Instead, he had just stood there, staring down at John until the latter raised his eyes off the pavement and recognised the friend he had long thought dead and buried.

"John, I am so sorry…"

Sherlock stopped momentarily as he saw what an effect his voice had on his friend.

'He looks tired – sad – hurt… betrayed' he deduced in his mind.

"Sh- Sherlock? You're not… dead? This is real?"

John's voice came out weak and unbelieving. As Sherlock noticed tears forming in the army doctor's eyes, he quickly continued:

"No. I truly am… so sorry. I realize… Well, what does it matter now or then, it wouldn't have made a difference. You see, a sniper had had eyes on you that day and the only way I could make sure you survived and were unharmed was to- well, to jump."

John's flinch at these words didn't go unnoticed by the detective.

"…and so, you see it was necessary to keep you in the dark about my location until now, John…"

Sherlock saw so many mixed emotions in his friend's eyes, but it seemed to him betrayal, pain and – understandably – anger were the most dominant ones. As his friend still didn't talk, Sherlock continued:

"Now, if you are going to punch me, which I would completely understand, can you please give me a warning so that I might at least brace myself? I think th- "

The sudden collision of their two bodies interrupted Sherlock. John had thrown himself right into the consulting detective's arms and was now leaned against him, face buried in Sherlock's collar. Without missing a beat, Sherlock lay his arms around his friend and pressed him against his chest.

'He's trembling' he noticed but kept the thought to himself. 'Does he have a cold? NO. That's clearly a sign of heightened anxiety.'

While John started to sob against Sherlock's shirt, the detective noticed a row of other things he had rather not known, as they caused him a deeper pain than he would ever admit.

'John' he thought, 'thinner. 14Ibs. And weak, he hasn't slept in days, that means he has nightmares. Because of the war? Unlikely.'

Sherlock meant to say so much, but all he was capable of bringing over his lips in that moment was comforting nonsense.

"John… my John- I'm so sorry. I'm here now."

From his sobbing friend's posture and behaviour Sherlock deduced that John was in dire need of familiarity, safety, home.

Just as he was. All Sherlock needed and had needed over the course of these horrible two years was John. The casualness and amity he provided, the secureness Sherlock always felt in his presence and the warm feeling he never ceased to inspire in his heart.

Without lifting his face up from Sherlock's chest, John mumbled with a tearful and hoarse voice:

"Do you have any idea what I've been through because of you?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then, almost as huskily replied:

"… I missed you just as much… Even though I would never assume I knew your pain… I'm sure it's diff- Oh John, I'm sorry. Will you ever be able to forgive me?"

"Just- never leave me again, alright?"

"I wouldn't ever. It has been hard – so incredibly hard – knowing you were here, lonely, waiting for me, but I couldn't come to see you, John"

"I understand."

"You do?"

"Yes. Now, please, will you come home with me?"

"There's nothing in the world I would rather do"

Slowly and carefully, John pulled back from the embrace and looked up at Sherlock. Upon seeing how distraught and desperate his friend really was, Sherlock quickly fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to John.

"It's ok now. We're back together, just like in the old days"

He assured John while the former army doctor wiped off his tears.

Later that night at 221B, the two men were sitting on their usual armchairs in the living room. Sherlock had been amazed to find out that John had not moved anything in the flat, not thrown out a single one of Sherlock's possessions.

"That's not sentiment, is it?"

He had asked, half-jokingly.

"I suppose it is- in a certain way. I had always had the thought in the back of my head that one day you would just pop in and fill me in on the cases you have solved. You see, every time I tried to get rid of one of your things, I thought 'He's going to need that, later' and I just couldn't. I just couldn't accept your death."

The doctor had replied, staring into his mug of tea.

Upon arriving, Sherlock had immediately started deducing everything John had done in the flat while he had been gone, judging by the different layers of dust on tiles and wardrobes. He had only stopped this little game of his when he noticed that there was no dust whatsoever on the drawer that contained John's gun. It had obviously been opened and closed again many times. A lump had started to form in Sherlock's throat, but he was unable to bring the matter up, it just was too close, too painful for this night of reconciliation.

Now, they were just looking at one another, taking in all about each other's features as if they had to make up for all the time they had spent apart. They hadn't really talked about those two years, as neither of them was ready to do so just yet, so they just sat there, drinking tea, thinking about how much both their lives had been changed today.

3


	5. You Kissed Me (M)

They were on a case. All day John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had been dashing around London, collection and combining clues and evidence and finally ended up in Finsbury Park in the north of the city on a deserted spot of grass surrounded by hovering dark trees.

While they were walking across the terrain, John a few steps ahead of his detective friend, the former army doctor suddenly felt long and bony fingers sneak around his wrist and try to fixate it. Before he could think, John's soldier reflexes set in and, smacking the attacker to the side of the head with his elbow and then proceeding to kick the man's legs away from beneath him but being dragged down as well by a desperate grip at his collar, John only moments later found himself leaning above a man lying flat on his back, completely stunned by the former soldier's sudden outburst of violence.

John blinked. The man whose head he had trapped between his hands which were firmly pressed into the grass, supporting his weight, was Sherlock. After the first moment of shock, the detective clumsily reached out to take hold of John's sleeve in astonishment of the sudden proximity. The doctor, now beginning to sense the adrenaline that had taken hold of him in the moment of the alleged attack, hissed angrily:

"Christ, Sherlock! What do you _think _you're doing? You can't just touch me from behind like that – invade my private space! You scared the hell out of me! Don't touch me again, understand?"

Immediately as John noticed his friend's expression, however, he felt guilty for having overtaken and shouted at him like that in a moment of anger and shock.

With an unusually soft and confused voice and a certain insecurity in his mesmerising eyes that made them look almost child-like, Sherlock whispered:

"But- you… kissed me", making it almost sound like a question.

John froze. The memory of that last night. The drinks they had had together. John staring intently at Sherlock's swinging curls as his friend laughed – they had looked like black velvet and oh, how soft they had felt as the former army doctor sled his hands into them, slowly and gently pulling Sherlock closer until, softly at first, their lips had touched. Both men had pulled away instantly, searching each other's eyes for the feelings they felt and an indication of what the other wanted. Then, shyly but steadily growing bolder and more passionate, they had kissed again. Sherlock's hands had found their way to John's cheek and neck while his friend's were deeply buried in the detective's raven curls.

"That- "

John began hesitantly, still leaning above his friend.

"That was one time and it was…" – a mistake, he had wanted to say, but looking down into Sherlock's emotion filled eyes, mere inches parting their faces, he couldn't. All John could see were his friend's slightly parted lips and the shy anticipation and the fear of rejection in his eyes. How could he say no to this? How could John pretend he didn't want this as well?

Following the gentle tucking at his sleeves, the doctor leaned down a bit more, crossing the last bit of air parting the two men, and then…

But before his lips could brush against Sherlock's, the consulting detective whispered:

"John?"

Blinking as if trying to snap out of a paralysis, John quickly sat back upon his feet, now kneeling at Sherlock's side, re-establishing the safe distance between them and allowing Sherlock to sit up again.

Leaning up first on his elbows and then fully sitting up, the consulting detective winced almost unnoticeably. His friend's violent attack had not left him unharmed, but he definitely wasn't going to mention that now.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Then, with an almost steady voice, he asked:

"John, are you using me as a distraction?"

John was completely taken aback. He felt the anger and other emotions he could not quite identify welling up inside him again as his friend pushed a stray curl out of his eye. Still on the adrenaline and other hormones, John's hands grabbed Sherlock's throat and, pushing the detective backwards roughly until they were in their former position again, pressed and prevented the air from moving into his friend's lungs.

The vicious impulse only lasted for a few short seconds, before Sherlock's panic-stricken hands could tear at John's firm ones, the latter had already significantly loosened his grasp at his friend's throat and instead had begun gently tracing the detective's jaw with his thumb. As Sherlock made no movement or sound that could indicate that he wanted John to get off him, the doctor slowly and carefully cupped his friend's cheek with one hand and, before he could help it, let his thumb gently glide over Sherlock's lips, parting them slightly.

John leaned down until his mouth almost touched his friend's ear and whispered hoarsely:

"You know what is distracting?"

Sherlock let out an unidentifiable sound of surprise and excitement as his friend's teeth nibbled at his ear lightly.

John continued just as quietly:

"Your stupid beautiful face, your stupid gorgeous eyes and your fucking perfect lips are distracting, and they should be none of my business, but Sherlock…" John said, almost hissing the name out between his teeth and looked down at his friend once more, eyes shining in the dark evening, "…I want to mess you up!"

John chuckled as he noticed his friend's breath hitching at those words. Before Sherlock knew it, John had stood up, leaving him trembling on the ground. Taking the doctor's hand, Sherlock got pulled to his feet and together they crossed the lawn to hail a cab.

During the taxi ride home, John's hand rested heavily and possessively on Sherlock's leg. Getting into the cab, John had immediately placed his left hand on his friend's knee, but Sherlock could sense it sliding upwards slowly over the course of the drive, if intentionally or not he did not know.

While Sherlock was unlocking the door to their second floor flat at 221B, he sensed a continuous stare and as he turned around to find the source of the uncomfortable feeling, he found John's eyes intently fixed on him and tracking his every movement.

"Is everything alright?"

The clueless consulting detective asked while pushing open the door. Instead of answering, his flatmate took a step towards him and thus urged Sherlock to walk into the flat backwards. When both men had entered, John wasted no time.

"Sherlock"

He let out while pushing his friend into the next wall and slamming the door shut with his free hand, the one that was not grabbing Sherlock's collar.

"Did you like me kissing you?"

John teased as he sensed the detective's accelerated pulse and flat breathing – not that he had needed any further indications of his friend's feelings as Sherlock's cheeks were bright red and his eyes roamed over John's face restlessly.

"Ah, _John_"

Sherlock moaned as the former army doctor forced a finger between his friend's lips.

But John wasn't done yet. He had begun this his way and he was going to make sure it continued his way.

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock? I want you to say it!"

The soldier's loudness increased with his steadily growing pulse.

Sherlock, hands pressed against the wall at his sides and trembling but still trying to keep control and a good face retorted:

"From your aggression and your obvious need for close physical contact I deduce that you are not in fact pugnacious but immensely sexually frustrated- "

He was harshly interrupted by John's mouth attacking his throat and biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there.

When Sherlock regained the ability to breathe, his voice came out thin and hoarsely:

"- this, however, does not mean that you have to do anything you don't want to – you don't have to take on me if that makes you uncomfortable, you should know that I am willing to wait for you any time you name."

"You're not _getting _it, Sherlock, are you?" John answered fiercely, "I am not doing this out of sexual frustration or lack of intercourse. I am doing it because I fucking love you and your every breath and movement is an immense turn on I cannot ignore. If you want this, I want this. So – _Say it!_"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, stunned by his friend's words. Then he whispered:

"Kiss me?"

And only a heartbeat later John had gotten up on his tiptoes and joined his lips with his friend's, pushing Sherlock into the wall quite harshly in the process, but the detective could hardly be bothered by that in that moment. This kiss was different than the ones they had shared the night before. There was a note of need in it that scared and excited both of them and when John's tongue danced around Sherlock's lips, it was quickly allowed entrance and soon the two flatmates were intently exploring each other's mouth.

When they pulled away, gasping for air, Sherlock for the first time since they had entered took a step away from the wall and, taking hold of John's upper arms and staring into his eyes with a mixture of emotions whose intensity was comparable to a huge dose of drugs, he said:

"I love you, John Watson. I think I have felt this way for a very long time, I just couldn't identify the notion of sentiment that had taken hold of me."

Then, after a short moment of examining his flatmate's reaction closely, he added:

"My bedroom. Now."

4


	6. Shared Bed

Letting Rosie have the upstairs bedroom at 221B for herself and both refusing to let the other sleep on the couch permanently, Sherlock and John agreed to share Sherlock's bed – entirely platonically, of course, and even building up a wall of pillows between them so there would be no "unwelcome contact".

Once John tucked his daughter in and spent nearly half an hour coaxing her to sleep, he went back downstairs to find Sherlock playing a soft song on his violin. The tune is slow, and John cannot help but feel his friend's emotions being conveyed and expressed through the sad but still mesmerising melody. Sherlock plays facing the window and the dark street outside, and when his song is finished, he doesn't immediately turn around but stands still for a moment, unmoving, violin still on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

His friend's careful voice comes from behind him. Taking in a breath and shaking his head like he's waking from a trance, the detective slowly puts away his violin, trying to find the right words.

"No – Yes… I suppose I'm as okay as can be expected given the circumstances. I'm just-"

Sherlock's eyes finally find John's after shooting through almost the entire living room,

"John, I'm just very glad that you are here and that you are safe."

The doctor blinks a few times, trying to comprehend what he just heard his friend, who is hardly open-handed with complements, say.

"Well, um, that's – that's good, I guess. Are you tired yet? Because I spent the entire day carrying Rosie's stuff upstairs and I'm honestly exhausted"

Sherlock shoots John an understanding smile and replies:

"Of course, any time you'd like! I haven't really slept the last few days, so I should probably be going to bed as well, now."

With that, the two best friends went into their shared bathroom, prepared for bed and eventually slid underneath the sheets, both on their respective sides of the bed. Just before Sherlock turns off the light, John reaches under the bed and pulls out another pillow, stuffing it between the two of them, reinforcing the already existing pillow wall separating them. Sherlock raises an eyebrow but says nothing, he merely switches off the light and gets comfortable.

In the darkness, a voice is heard:

"Good night, John"

"Good night, Sherlock, sleep well!"

"You, too"

John doubts that he will, but he leaves it at that. He is not inclined to let his friend know about the continuing nightmares he can't seem to get rid of and the resulting lack of sleep he feels more distinctly every day.

The sound of a car driving by suddenly surfaces in John's mind and, head still fuzzy with sleepiness, he realises it's still quite dark outside but dawning, meaning he slept more than any of the nights before. Relishing in the bliss of a calm morning, the former army doctor doesn't want to get up just now, the warmth of the bed simply is so comforting and the steady beating sound at his ear is like a lullaby trying to coax him back to sleep…

Wait – a beating sound? Why would there be a beating sound? And what is that slow rising and falling of John's pillow?

Half-consciously feeling with his hands, he realises that, while one of them is resting on the same surface as his head, the other one is buried in something soft and oddly comforting. Slowly, trying to remember what happened last night, John opens his eyes.

The first thing he notices is that there is no pillow in sight and that his head in fact is on Sherlock's chest and his hand in Sherlock's mess of ebony curls. The detective's long arms are tightly wrapped around his short friend, not seeming to be willing to let him go just yet, and he finds his face to be pressed into John's hair.

"Morning"

Sherlock whispers hoarsely after he notices John's breathing getting faster and less regularly. The doctor turns his head enough to look up at his friend and can't resist nuzzling his nose into the detective's warm throat.

"Morning, Sherlock"

He mumbles into his friend's neck.

The two stay like that for a few minutes longer, neither wanting to get out of the quite comfortable situation, but then a movement in the upstairs bedroom is heard.

Groaning, John and Sherlock awkwardly disentangle and get out of bed. While John is still trying to get rid of the sleepiness, Sherlock quickly slips his bathrobe over his night clothes and is out of the door with the words:

"You wake up, first, I'll check on Rosie."

Neither of them says anything about the incident at night or what happened to the pillow wall, but the next evening, when John slides into the bed to Sherlock, he doesn't hesitate to snuggle up close to his best friend, as both flatmates quite obviously had enjoyed the cuddling the previous night. Close contact isn't a question anymore.

"She's going to be a wonderful young woman, our daughter"

John whispers into his friend's – boyfriend's? he will have to bring the matter up the next day – chest.

"Yes… our daughter…"

Sherlock replies, trying out the words and finding them quite fitting.

3


	7. Brother Mine

Mycroft Holmes strode through the streets of London, umbrella opened up above his head as heavy rain poured down from the grey and featureless sky. He despised bad weather and precipitation as this especially, but just this once he could not let himself be driven and thus monitored by his subordinates at the British government as he currently was engaged in a rather delicate matter.

The matter, of course, was his little junkie brother Sherlock who had not only stolen his high-ranking ID card and impersonated him, but furthermore used his name to break into a strictly guarded military facility, causing a string of sensitive security breaches. As this certainly was not common, but not the first time something of the sorts had happened, this abuse of government property and identity alone would not have accounted for a meeting of the estranged Holmes brothers. No – Mycroft was here in Baker Street standing just in front of 221B for a different reason.

Certainly, Mycroft had his little brother monitored and supervised constantly and had over time designed a detailed and very nearly faultless analysis of Sherlock Holmes' patterns of behaviour that would with an accuracy of 94.5% predict a danger night.

Two of those danger nights had been predicted for this week, which was undoubtedly above average; one for the previous night and one for this one.

As Mycroft Holmes stood there on the pavement, only a few steps away from the front door of Mrs. Hudson's house, face emotionless and posture as straight as ever but internally debating on whether he should ring the bell, taking the risk of encountering the landlady, or call his brother who would probably not even pick up his phone, all of a sudden the door got thrown open, shaking the wet and slick golden knocker, sending all the raindrops that had collected on it dribbling to the ground.

Before Mycroft Holmes could but take a breath or muster something to say, a slim figure with a head full of dark and messy curls stormed out of the house, stumbled down the few steps leading to the front door and practically threw himself against Mycroft.

Ere the latter had fully realised what was going on, long and bony arms had wrapped themselves around his neck and the younger man's frame was slouched against him, face buried in Mycroft's chest.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft protested more surprised than annoyed and a lot softer than he had originally intended.

At first sight he had observed a considerable number of things about his little brother. Sherlock did not have an umbrella or a coat, he was not even wearing a jacket but merely a slightly damp deep purple shirt. Moreover, the atrocious silence and resignation with which he leaned against Mycroft and the disturbingly obvious crave for physical contact told him quite a bit about the detective's emotional state. Before he knew it, Mycroft's arm lay around his brother's back, holding him close to his chest while Sherlock's head remained tucked underneath the older man's chin.

Because he did not have anything else to say and he did not yet consider himself adequately prepared for a conversation about _sentiment_, Mycroft, still holding his little brother in one arm and an umbrella above them in his other, remarked:

"I understand your little _adventure _in Baskerville was successful?"

He could sense Sherlock taking a few deep breaths as if to steady himself, but he did not yet seem to be willing to lift his head. Eventually, the detective mumbled into his brother's collar:

"Quite so. And might I add – it was a delight to pull rank to break into a government high-security facility."

"Not only for you, for all I heard" Mycroft replied.

Sherlock stiffened almost unnoticeably and was silent for a few moments, then, in one swift motion, he disentangled himself from his older brother and took a step back, carefully avoiding eye contact. They had reached the sensitive topic, then.

Perceiving the steady fall of rain that was pouring over the younger man now that he had stepped away from the sheltering umbrella, Mycroft proposed:

"Perhaps, if you have no objection, which I doubt you do, we could continue this pleasant little conversation inside?"

Sherlock gave no reply, he did not but acknowledge the remark with a small nod of the head, but he turned, leading his brother into 221B and up the stairs into his rooms, where he dropped into his chair and – after he watched Mycroft getting rid of the jacket and the umbrella – motioned for him to take a seat opposite of him.

There was a brief moment of silence wherein the two solely stared at each other, making their silent observations and deductions. Then, breaking eye contact to run his hand across his forehead, Mycroft spoke up.

"For mercy's sake, could you please quit the guilty look, Sherlock? This really is not something you need to be this pathetically apologetic about."

Confusion momentarily sparked in the younger man's eyes but was quickly replaced by anger.

"Well if you are that educated, why don't you tell me what _This _is?"

"I think you know rather well, but do not worry yourself, it is not like you will be disowned for showing- "

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be annoyed:

"Showing, Mycroft? Showing what? Care to elaborate on what precisely you are accusing me of?"

"_Sentiment_."

"I'm not showing sentiment."

"Oh, come on, I know the symptoms. Doctor Watson is out on a date again, is he not?"

When Mycroft did not get a reply for several seconds, he assumed Sherlock was still attempting to phrase a reasonable retort to that, and the older one added:

"There really is nothing wrong with you, you know? Turns out we are all just humans after all, Brother Mine."

"But you said- "

Mycroft would not admit it in his life, but there might have bean a slight sting in his chest at the way his little brother's voice cracked with uncertainty and misery and at the manner Sherlock buried his face in his hands, loose curls trapped between his fingers and showing an inability to look at his older brother anymore.

Calmly, he began to explain:

"I am aware of what I said, but- "

"_Caring is not an advantage."_

"I know, Sherlock. But that was meant to stop you from getting involved, from getting _attached_. But once you are…"

Sherlock's eyes peaked from underneath the mess of curls. There was fear in them. Sherlock Holmes, his little brother, was afraid – afraid of himself, of his _emotions_ and of his heart.

"Once you care for someone deeply and the thought of loosing them scares you above all else, you cannot simply un-love them, Sherlock. But, truly, that is alright. You care for John Watson and – if I am not entirely misreading the symptoms, he might feel something similar for you. Please do not let me or my insensible words prevent you from further pursuing that path. I never thought I would say that to you, but you should do what makes you happy and not worry yourself about things that have not yet been but are quite possible. I only want for you to be content, Brother Mine, I really do. I know I do not say it nearly as often as I should, but there are moments wherein I am genuinely fond of you."

Sherlock threw his arms into the air.

"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?" he half-shouted.

Mycroft shrugged, and a smile stole onto his face.

"If you will take my advice, you should rather fathom about what to say to John Watson when he enters here in about four and a half minutes. Upon arriving at the restaurant, he will have noticed that his date had reconsidered and not in fact have been willing to attend and he will therefore have left immediately and – quite conveniently, have found a car parked for him outside that will bring him straight back home to you."

Getting up and picking up his jacket and umbrella, Mycroft turned around to his little brother who was still sitting in his chair speechless once more and added:

"If you really are going to say something to me now, I consider _Thank You _would be appropriate, Brother Mine."

He was nearly out of the door and down the stairs when he heard Sherlock call after him:

"Mycroft? Thank You!"

Smiling, the older Holmes brother stepped out into the rain that suddenly did not seem to bother him anymore. Caring was not an advantage, but there was no denying it and he did not even bother to attempt to eradicate it: Mycroft Holmes was, in fact, very fond of his little brother.

4


	8. Who You Really Are

"When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope. When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat, like they've always been there, and they always will. The best and wisest men I have ever known – my Baker Street Boys – Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

For days and nights these words had been repeating themselves in John's head. The pain still sat deep, there was no way he would get rid of all the horrible memories – all the times he lost someone, lost faith, lost hope – any time soon, but at the same time he knew that life went on and – even more importantly – John knew that he wasn't alone. Not this time.

After Sherlock had parted from him by jumping off that rooftop, John had been alone, after he had lost Mary, he had isolated himself and been alone, but now, after he thought he had lost his sanity, his hope and had even anticipated losing his life at his friend's hands, John had Sherlock. As a rule, the detective wasn't exactly good with people, in fact, most of the time he couldn't even imagine what the people around him felt, but somehow, someway, Sherlock always seemed to be able to read John's emotional state. When John was lost, feeling that hopelessness and heart-wrenching desperation again, Sherlock would wordlessly get out of his chair, put his Laptop or Phone or whatever else he was busying himself with at the moment away and quietly walk over to his friend to wrap him in his arms. There was always something peculiarly comforting in being held by Sherlock. John couldn't quite name it, but his friend's uncommon tenderness never failed to calm him down and the detective didn't seem to have any inclination to stop being there for John.

Twice in these last three weeks after Euros Holmes had been brought back to Sherrinford again, Sherlock had even refused a potentially interesting case offered to him because he noticed that something about the client or the case was upsetting John and by that the former army doctor knew that he indeed was Sherlock's top priority, that his best friend would do anything to ensure his comfort, like he had done in Sherrinford when Euros had tried to force her brother to kill either Mycroft or John but Sherlock had refused, not being able to make that choice, and instead aimed the gun at his own head. The desperation and fear John had felt in that horrible moment were incomparable to anything he had ever suffered before – except perhaps for his emotions as his wife was dying in his arms.

But still… however at peace and comforted John felt in these rare moments when Sherlock was there for him, the agony and the fears always came back at night. In the past three weeks there hadn't been a single night where John had slept well, there hadn't been a single night without nightmares, without him waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweat. The nightmares weren't always the same and at times John couldn't even remember what they were about in the mornings, but the anxiety stayed. Sometimes he saw Mary dying again, sometimes he found himself locked in the psychological torture chamber Sherrinford – alone or with Mycroft and Sherlock – sometimes John witnessed Sherlock blowing his own brains out because of Euros and sometimes Mycroft talked Sherlock into shooting John. Furthermore, there had been several dreams in which John had drowned inside that damned well, frantically trying to draw air into his lungs and reach the surface while his feet were chained to the ground. Nonetheless, even though the dreams withheld all sorts of different terrible images, they all had one thing in common: In the end, nobody cared about John's emotions and if he had died in the dream, nobody bothered to arrange a funeral and no tears were cried. John was alone. Again.

Every night he feared the moment Sherlock would be done with his evening routine, bade him good night and went into his bedroom. The last weeks, John had slept in his own room at 221B together with Rosie, but the little girl usually was sent to bed before John and Sherlock got tired, so she wasn't a lot of comfort to her distraught father who often stayed up for hours tossing and turning in his bed before he dozed off and when he did, his late wife's words were predominant in his thoughts as though they were incised in his brain:

"Who you really are doesn't matter. It's all about the legends."

And John couldn't help crying every night, crying himself to sleep, because whatever Mary's intend with those words might have been, the doctor found himself unable to read them any differently than

"You don't matter, your feelings don't matter, and your sanity most certainly doesn't matter, just make sure you're viewed the right way and you solve some crimes."

It was no different tonight. Sherlock had disappeared inside his bedroom twenty minutes ago and since then John had not moved. He had meant to go to bed and get some rest, but hadn't found the courage to get up from the couch he had been sitting on, turn off the light and face his fears yet.

Hence, he simply sat there quietly, staring into nothing, thinking about nothing in particular except for his loneliness, and then, continually, the former soldier's eyelids seemed to become heavier and he was so incredibly tired – so tired and tired and tired that he lost his grip on the world and nodded off.

John could only have been asleep for a few minutes, but he was awoken by the gentle sounds of a violin. Groaning wordlessly, he sat up on the couch, head so dizzy from sleepiness that at first, he didn't realise he was covered by a big warm piece of clothing he recognised to be Sherlock's black coat. John looked to his right and was suddenly caught in eye-contact with his still playing friend. He found himself mesmerised by watching Sherlock's fingers glide over his violin and could not resist staring until the song ended and the world's only consulting detective silently lay the instrument aside.

Turning towards his friend and stepping closer to the couch, Sherlock said:

"John"

"Why are you still here?"

John's words were harsh, if intentionally or not Sherlock couldn't say, but he had deduced enough to know that his friend wasn't eating, nor, for that matter, sleeping. John was malnourished, sleep-deprived, suffered from anxiety and quite possibly from depression – Sherlock had deduced all sorts of details about his friend he had rather not known, but now found himself compelled? To do something about them. 'Who, if not me?' he thought.

"Because who you really are does matter. I agree with Mary on many points, but this – this isn't something you should allow to get into your head. It's not all about the cases and it's not all about the detective work. It is about you and me. It is about our – about our happiness and our lives and our togetherness, John, you cannot even fathom how much it means to me that we are together again, reunited, like in the old times…"

Sherlock's voice drifted off and John noticed a lonely tear running down his friend's cheek.

Hoarsely, he whispered:

"I believe I can."


End file.
